


drown the urge for permanence and certainty

by eudaimon



Category: The Outs
Genre: Canon - webseries, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has no plan for this; he's never experienced anything like this before.  Mitchell was nothing like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drown the urge for permanence and certainty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PJVilar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJVilar/gifts).



> I blame my friend Jen for this. I watched [The Outs](http://theouts.squarespace.com/watch/) and the rest...is history. The character of "Scruffy" is never named in canon, and my brain rejected that so, for the purpose of fic, his name is Matt.
> 
> I anticipate this not being the last time I write about these boys.  
> Title from "Sounds Familiar" by The Weakerthans.

We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest.  
Shedding skin faster than skin can grow,  
and armed with hammers, feathers, blunt knives...  
words, to meet and to define and to...  
but you must know

 

 _The sex is good,_ he said, _and getting better_.

Honestly, Jack’s never had sex like it; thanks to his slutty phase, he’s got a decent enough frame of reference. Those seven months gave him a lot of context – a lot of time on his knees, on his hands and knees, face pushed into the blankets, knees spread, cock in his mouth, in his ass and all of it beautiful, because it meant that he didn’t have to think. He didn’t think at all while it was happening and he barely thought about it after, blissed out and loose and a million miles away from how he’d felt sitting on the edge of that bed with Mitchell staring at him like he knew exactly what he was thinking.

But this is different. This is different from everything - _everything_ \- that came before.  
And he has no frame of reference for that.

What Jack knows about Matt is this: that his cock might curve to the left (Jack’s left) but it’s _beautiful_ and he more than knows what he’s doing with it. He knows that it isn’t all about the sex, either. A good part of it is cooking together, or sitting at either end of the couch reading and the way that Matt’s feet inevitably end up in his lap. They watch a lot of movies. They sleep with their fingers interlocked. They don’t argue, not really, which is a little bit disconcerting; Jack finds himself waiting for a shoe that’s maybe never going to drop. Because Matt is kind (but not too kind) and sweet (but not in a way that makes Jack wants to vomit), he knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to talk about it. He’s clever and he’s fucking _talented_ and he’s amazing in bed. Like, amazing. So maybe that other shoe isn’t going to drop because there _isn’t_ another shoe to drop. One shoe.

Which makes him think of Mitchell.  
He’s been trying to do that less.

Tuesday, he’s in Tribeca when he gets a text, his phone shivering in the pocket of his hoodie. PICK UP LUBE PLZ – WE’RE OUT, it says and then, a moment later. _P.S. I LIKE YOU_. And there he was, grinning like an idiot on Varick, with people flowing around him on either side like water.

He picks up the lube (of course he does) and extra rubbers while he’s there. Because, if Matt’s texting him about lube while he’s meeting a friend? He must have something planned and Jack intends to be prepared.

There are cops waiting just past the barriers for the uptown 2 train, which he needs to get to 14th Street and the L back to Williamsburg. Random bag searches. He’s pretty much the whitest guy there, pathetically inoffensive in his Chuck Taylors and his years old hoodie. Usually, he manages to just slip through but, this time, they’re waving him over and telling him that they’re checking his bag.

So he hands it over and looks away as they look through his Walgreens bag.  
If they comment, he doesn’t hear it. Or he pretends not to. He pretends that it isn’t fucking mortifying, reminds himself that everyone in the station has a sex-life and a lot of them are a hell of a lot weirder than his.

Right. 

On his way (still blushing, but only faintly), he puts in ear-buds and listens to a playlist that Matt made him, liking some of it, hating some of it, not reading or anything, just swaying with the rhythm of the train. He’s always liked riding the subway, ever since he moved here. He likes hanging off a rail, letting the rhythm take him. Brain wipe. Like being living white noise.

At home (he’s not sure, exactly, when he started thinking about it as _home_ but there it is), there’s soft music playing – one of his records – and the sound of water running. Matt sings in the shower, pretty tunefully as it happens. Jack drops his bag on the couch and gets himself a beer. When he first moved in, it really felt like Matt’s place, but, now, months later, there are his records, his books, his typewriter on the table. He’s been trying to write more. He’s been trying to feel more like a person who could do that. Like a person who remembers how to be that person, anyway.

The shower goes on for long enough that he’s about to shed his clothes and get in there too but then the faucet shuts off and there’s this damp, heavy sort of silence before the door opens. Jack hadn’t even realised that the record was finished. Matt stands there, idly towelling off, making his hair stand up in spikes and there’s that fucking beard and his beautiful, beautiful cock, water beading on his skin. Jack finds himself wondering why he fought so hard to get away from this but, at the same time, it’s terrifying. But wonderful. Both things in equal measure. God knows how he’s supposed to survive it.

But who cares.

“Did you bring it?” asks Matt, scruffy as ever. Sometimes, Jack thinks that the reason it’s so perfect is that Matt is just about as far away from Mitchell as it’s possible to be. Sometimes, he thinks that. Most of the time, he doesn’t think about Mitchell at all. Not like that, anyway. That feels like a different world now, or like it happened to someone else.

“Of course I brought it,” he says, bending down to snag his backpack. “You asked me to, didn’t you?”

Matt’s grin is wide and bright. Still naked as the day that he was born, he wanders over to the record player and sets it going again.

“Bedroom,” he says, glancing up. “And take your fucking jeans off.”  
And still grinning. Sometimes, Jack grins so much that he feels like his face is going to fall off. Normal people can’t smile like this. They’d never get anything _done_.

In the doorway, he presses against Matt, shoulder to knee, Matt’s cock pressed hard against him through his jeans. Usually, more often, Jack’s the one that’s naked while Matt’s still in clothes; he’s the one sliding across Matt’s lap, cock already hard and in his hand, biting his lip as he settles. There’s something really hot about it; something that’s entirely to do with how much he trusts Matt and how safe Matt makes him feel. Yeah, he had a lot of sex during his slutty phase but none of it made him feel warm like Matt does. None of it made him feel loved.

And that’s the hottest fucking thing in the world.

“God, come on,” he says, grinding forward, his fingers wrapped in the hem of his own shirt. All of the other things that he wants to say get caught and tangled, the dirty, private things, about Matt’s cock and where he wants it, how long he wants it, how hard and how _deep_. He can never quite get those things out when he wants to, so he settles for kissing Matt so hard that he uses up all of his breath.

His shirt comes off really easily after that. His jeans don’t last long, either.

They fuck a lot. They’re still in that phase of figure out how they like it – what’s good, what’s good for _both_ of them. Jack knows what he likes, figured that out with all of the screwing around. He likes it hard and dirty, on his knees preferably or with his face shoved into the pillows. He’s not ashamed of the noise that he makes. He doesn’t mind being naked; he wasn’t lying when he said he was never going to look this good again.

(What he didn’t expect to like this much were the other times, the face to face times with Matt on top of him, slipped between spread thighs, slicked and sliding easily, deeper and deeper, and their mouths fluttering together and _oh, my God, I love your cock, I love everything about your cock, I want you so deep I can taste it, come on, come on, just like that._. The way that Matt takes his face in both hands and kisses him like he means it, like he really means it and like he intends to go on meaning it for a long, long time. He never expected to need that like breathing).

What’s amazing is that Matt seems to know instinctively what he needs on any given day. He’s been bound to the bed with silk ties looped around his wrists, another stretched across his eyes. He’s been bent over the frame, weight caught on his forearms with every thrust. He’s caught his breath as Matt’s hand slapped hard against his skin, only to be followed by an open mouthed kiss. Tonight, he ends up on his knees with his head down, with his ass in the air, thighs apart, open and slick with Matt’s cock sliding into him, slowly, deeply, rocking him forward with every thrust.

“Oh, God,” he hears himself mumbling. “I love your cock. I love every _inch_ of your fucking cock.”

Which is not the same as _I love you_ , not yet. But close.  
It’s so fucking close it would scare him, if he didn’t feel so _safe_.

Afterwards, they collapse in a sweaty knot in the middle of the bed, wrapped around each other, Matt’s knee between Jack’s thighs, Jack’s arm thrown around Matt’s shoulders. Jack realises that they’re breathing in time with each other. It’s just another thing that’s fallen into place.

What he hopes is that, eventually, he’ll stop thinking about it. That everything will have fallen into place. That, this time, he won’t fuck it up. That, this time, Matt won’t _let_ him fuck it up. He doesn’t feel corrosive anymore, not as much as he did, anyway. Maybe a little. But it's getting better, too. 

His phone rings beside the bed. Warm and in safe hands, he doesn’t bother answering it. There isn't anything in the world more important that this, right here, right now.


End file.
